


A Fair Day's Work

by featherhearted



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Labor Unions, M/M, Mutual Pining, class warfare, inappropriate use of leftist slogans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26346703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherhearted/pseuds/featherhearted
Summary: “I may have some coffee in the place for you,” said Prime Minister Aegir. “Let me show you how much better I have become at brewing it to your taste.”“If you insist,” said Minister Vestra but he sounded pleased. To Delarivier, who had literally made it her profession to attune herself to his tone (usually ranging fromsort-of-murder-y toextremely-murder-y), Minister Vestra sounded very pleased indeed.--Ferdinand and Hubert's long-suffering aides figure out a way to work fewer hours.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary, Edelgard von Hresvelg & Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand von Aegir & Edelgard von Hresvelg, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 73
Kudos: 232





	1. an injury to one is an injury to all

Delarivier Lavie – previously Anetta Pipple, a name she felt was not taken with sufficient seriousness in her position as Minister Hubert Vestra’s aide – lay down on the office couch and prayed for death to take her. It was an ungodly hour in the night. It might, in fact, have been an ungodly hour in the morning. Minister Vestra did not allow concepts like time nor basic physiological needs to get in the way of his work. Unfortunately, that meant Delarivier could not either.

It was the farthest thing from a sound, barely a ripple of air. But Delarivier bolted upright and seized the cup of coffee, hands glowing with heat. A second later, Minister Vestra’s door opened and he thrust a sheaf of papers at Delarivier. They made an exchange. He did not need to say, “Review these, take them to the palace printing presses, have it circulated amongst the palace staff and ensure that it is carried out to the last smudge of ink. Thank you for heating my coffee.” Delarivier would never have lasted so long if he had to. Right now, she was having a lot of trouble remembering why that was a good thing. 

“Lavie,” said Minister Vestra, just as she turned to go. “I will need you back within three hours to help draft the keynote speech."

That meant he was going to get three hours of sleep. That meant Delarivier was going to get none.

“Yes, Minister,” she said, instead of “Fuck you, you miserable fucking bat vampire boss from hell, I hope a Demonic Beast gets into your glove drawer and shits on every single pair.”

Delarivier had been in the war. Its outcome had been particularly messy, as a compromise always was. She could still remember the way hope had stabbed through her when peace had been declared between the Alliance, the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus and the Adrestian Empire. Like a blade, hope was sharp and cold and felt wrong between her ribs. This was peace without victory and Delarivier knew there were many who grumbled about that. She had been on the frontlines, however. She would take peace.

But at least battles had to end _sometime_. Administration, if you took Minister Vestra as an example, never did.

She made her way through the palace. It was summer in Enbarr and the light came early, thin gold clawing at the grey blue sky. Delarivier thought of breakfast, she thought of coffee, but mostly she thought of her bed with the lasciviousness of a young monk walking by a brothel. She thought of her mattress, her firm white pillows, the thin summer blanket her mother had – _what the fucking goddess fuck!_

Someone collided into her, very hard. Minister Vestra’s papers, painstakingly organized and minimally fastened, exploded into the air.

“What,” said Delarivier, enunciating every word fastidiously, “the fucking goddess fuck.”

“You’ve already said that,” the someone said. “Quite loudly the first time.”

“Am I ever happy to oblige that death wish you’ve got going on,” said Delarivier, her palms itching with heat.

“ _Please._ Maybe then I’d finally get some rest.”

Delarivier blinked, took a deep breath and let her hands cool. The man on the floor, picking up the papers grudgingly, was vaguely familiar. Maybe it was just the matching bags under their eyes. But no – wait – “You’re one of the Prime Minister’s,” she said.

He looked sharply up at her then. Delarivier realised anew how ineffectual a nasty look was when ringed with dark circles. No wonder she felt like she was barely getting anything done with the younger staff these days. “I am _the_ one of the Prime Minister’s,” he said coldly. “I am his aide– de– camp, Driss Barshah.”

 _The Alymyran_ , thought Delarivier. Then, immediately: _how ridiculous that is – his family has been in Enbarr several generations._ They had been the von Bartzes before, one of the quieter, lower ranked noble houses, known for a minor crest of Daphnel every generation or so, and their peach estates. They were an inoffensive house and no one had been rude enough to enquire too openly about their dark hair and the way their skin tanned so easily in the sun. Then Claude – no, Khalid von Riegan had swept in on his wyvern and cut Fodlan’s Throat wide open. Almyra had not come rampaging in for conquer (“yet,” the conservatives snarled to anyone who would listen). Trade and travel between the four nations was becoming more normalized, however. And that, along with Emperor Edelgard’s militant drive to stamp out blood supremacy, was making it possible for people like Driss Barshah to speak aloud their secret family names and demand that others use them too.

Delarivier bowed deeply. “Lord Barshah, my apologies. I am newly joined Minister Vestra’s daylight staff and did not recognize you. I am his aide, Delarivier Lavie.”

“His daylight staff? You don’t look like you’ve just awoken,” he said, needling. Delarivier understood that Minister Vestra’s night staff were not well– liked. They operated in necessary secrecy and also tended to drip blood on the corridors at random hours of the day.

“That’s because I haven’t slept,” she said. “But as you can see by the dates and times on those memos you scattered across the floor, they’re intended for printing and distribution today.”

“Ah,” said Lord Barshah. “Yes, well, I am helping you pick them up.”

“I wasn’t aware the Prime Minister kept a night staff,” she said, testing.

“He should,” said Lord Barshah darkly. “There! I believe these papers are organized. And I apologize again for walking into you. I must join Prime Minister Aegir on his morning ride now.”

He said this in the same tone as he might have announced the funerals of his wife and six children lost in an earthquake.

“I hope you enjoy it,” she said, accepting the papers and starting to look through them to make sure they were correct.

Lord Barshah laughed hollowly.

***

Now that she knew to look for him, Driss Barshah was everywhere, at all times of the day. Delarivier had known, in an academic sense, that Prime Minister Aegir worked the same punishing pace as Minister Vestra. Truthfully, she had not really cared. Keeping up with Minister Vestra’s moods and schedule occupied most of her thoughts and whatever space available was usually given to self–pity. Now though, she noticed Driss Barshah walking at Prime Minister Aegir’s elbow, or returning from a horse–ride with him, or stumping around with a long–suffering face, carrying big bags of lances at odd hours of the night.

“Lord Barshah. What are _those_ for?” she said, nodding at the lances.

“Oh, just call me Driss,” he said tiredly. “Charity auction to raise money for afterschool programs. Or maybe they are for the afterschool programs? I lose track sometimes. What are you doing out and about at this time of the night?”

“Minister Vestra’s run out of Zanado Treasure Fruit and I’m to go pick some,” she replied.

“Aren’t those hard to obtain in Fodlan? Where in the greenhouses are they?” he asked curiously.

“No specific greenhouse,” said Delarivier, giving him a toothy smile. “He can’t be expected to remember all the instructions he gave the gardeners. It’s a picky fruit anyway, it could be anywhere but it does require certain seeds and only the best fertilizer. Why would he remember which seeds from which part of the continent though. Anyway, he needs them in thirty minutes and there are, oh, about twenty– five different greenhouses. So. You know. Off I go.”

“I’d offer to help you if I had a free moment,” said Driss. “If I didn’t have five hundred other things I’d rather be doing with a free moment. Like maybe actually having time to wipe after a shit.”

Delarivier laughed out loud. It felt foreign coming out of her throat, like she was coughing up axes. Driss looked alarmed.

“What was that?” he said.

“That was me laughing,” she said. “It’s been a while.”

They stood awkwardly for a second.

“Well,” Driss said, re–hoisting the bag of lances onto his back. “Until next time.”

“Inevitably,” Delavrivier replied, snapping on a long pair of yellow gardening gloves.

***

‘Next time’ actually occurred in daylight. Minister Vestra met with the Emperor and Prime Minister to discuss strategy for the first visit of the leaders of the Leicester Alliance since Emperor Edelgard had taken the throne. The political intrigue and not–at–all–occasional bitchy comments about various Leicester Alliance notables was the kind of thing that kept Delarivier at her job. Well, that and needing to pay Enbarr’s increasingly ridiculous room and board rates.

“As the Minister of the Imperial Household, I am, of course, in charge of arranging suitable accommodations,” said Minister Vestra and Delarivier wrote in her notes, _Ensure that listening sigils are placed in discreet locations._ “I thought to put them in the west wing.”

“How many rooms are necessary again?” said Prime Minister Aegir. “Ah, thank you!” The list appeared in Driss’s hand like magic and was presented. It was colour–coded. Delarivier conceded that as a nice touch.

Emperor Edelgard leaned over Prime Minister Aegir’s shoulder and said, “Khalid and Lorenz in adjoining rooms, _really._ ”

“And Hilda is arriving alone,” said Prime Minister Aegir. “Oh dear, I do hope nothing has gone wrong between her and Marianne. She is an excellent influence on her.”

“I admit, the thought of dealing with Lady Goneril without the pacifying inspiration of Lady Edmund…” said Minister Vestra, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Much less if the parting is of a more permanent nature. We’ll have to account for that.” Delarivier wrote, _Make sure that furniture in Lady Goneril’s room is axe–proof._

“And they’ve completed their party with Ignatz!” said Prime Minister Aegir. “I see the Alliance has started that art and culture initiative that Lorenz last wrote to me about. It is a good idea to have Ignatz in charge of that – the fact that he is a practitioner himself. Perhaps while he is here, I could talk to him about the restoration of the Imperial Museum? It is another project I have been mulling over and I am increasingly convinced it will be of great benefit to the public!”

Both Minister Vestra and Driss winced.

“Ferdinand, perhaps it is not wise for you to take on yet another pet project,” began Minister Vestra.

This time it was the Emperor who winced.

“Hubert, are you saying that I cannot handle my workload? How much must I do to prove myself to you? Ah, that is, you and Edelgard! They are not my pet projects, as you say. Each of my endeavours are intended only to do what is best for the improvement of the Empire and to strengthen Edelgard’s rule! Very well, I suppose I have no choice but to prove you wrong and take on the development of the museum myself,” huffed the Prime Minister, tossing his mane of red hair back like an insulted horse. Delarivier saw a flash of deep hatred cross Driss’s face briefly, directed wholly at Minister Vestra.

“Of course Hubert is not suggesting that, Ferdinand,” said the Emperor impatiently. “Must I always be mediating between the two of you? Certainly it is a good idea to speak to Ignatz while we have him but I believe your ambitious reformation of our educational system, the institutions you are developing for the treatment and re–training of war veterans and the – ah –”

“The war horse sanctuaries, your Majesty,” said Driss. “And also the orphanages.”

“Yes, thank you, Lord Barshah. Those initiatives are sufficiently demanding of your attention. No, Ferdinand, that was an order, not a suggestion. And it wasn’t an insult either, so settle down,” said the Emperor. “There are only twenty–four bells in the day and despite what you and Hubert seem to think, at least some of that time has to be spent sleeping.”

Delarivier found herself experiencing a sudden and passionate devotion to the Emperor. Who did she have to kill to get a transfer over to her staff instead? Based on the look on Driss’s face, he was wondering the same thing.

When the meeting concluded, the Prime Minister turned to Minister Vestra. “I acknowledge that my outburst just now was not becoming,” he said, smiling. “I apologize, Hubert.”

“Nonsense,” said Minister Vestra brusquely. Delarivier almost dropped the papers in her hand when the next words out of his mouth were, “I am sorry. My choice of words was flawed. It was not my intention to insult you.”

Alright, it sounded like his teeth were being pulled out his head as he said them, but Delarivier had worked with Minister Vestra for over five years and could count on one hand the number of times she had ever heard him apologize. She shot him an astonished look. He looked as uncomfortable as he sounded, scowling at the floor and not meeting Prime Minister Aegir’s eyes.

“I appreciate that, Hubert,” said the Prime Minister heartily. “Now, I propose that we both take some tea together to demonstrate our lack of ill will. I feel it has been an age since we have had the opportunity to sit together.”

Minister Vestra looked up then, smiling crookedly. “You know that I never drink tea,” he said.

“I may have some coffee in the place for you,” said Prime Minister Aegir. “Let me show you how much better I have become at brewing it to your taste.”

“If you insist,” said Minister Vestra but he sounded pleased. To Delarivier, who had literally made it her profession to attune herself to his tone (usually ranging from _sort-of-murder_ -y to _extremely-murder_ -y), Minister Vestra sounded very pleased indeed.

“Come,” said Prime Minister Aegir, taking Minister Vestra by the elbow. “It is just that time of the evening when the balcony outside my office is particularly pleasant. Thank you, Driss, Ms. Lavie. Your services today have been greatly appreciated.”

“Ah – of course, Prime Minister,” said Driss. “Is there, ah, anything else you require from me?”

“Hmm? No, I believe that is all,” said Prime Minister Aegir. “Please leave the notes from the meeting today on my desk and we will review them tomorrow morning when I see you.”

“Do the same, Lavie,” said Minister Vestra, and then they left the room.

“Bless the Goddess,” said Delarivier the moment the door closed firmly behind them.

“You heard that too?” Driss demanded feverishly. “I’m not just dreaming, right? Prime Minister Aegir said that he didn’t need to see me till tomorrow morning? And it’s still bright out? Tell me I’m not dreaming!”

“If this is a dream, I’m never waking up,” said Delarivier. “We’re free. We’re really free. By St. Cichol’s holy green ballsack – wait, are you _crying?_ ”

“I am about to go and have ten hours of uninterrupted sleep,” snapped Driss. “Of course I’m bloody crying!”

***

Delarivier didn’t go to bed immediately. First she ate an enormous meal – sitting down! At her own table! She took a long, cool shower, luxuriantly soaping up her hair, massaging her fingers into her scalp. Then she read a chapter of a salacious novel, written by an anonymous Lady of purported Quality. Even then, she was in bed before the evening light was fully gone. Unfortunately, three years of working for Minister Vestra meant that after five hours of deep sleep, she woke up by sitting bolt upright, frantically sure she had missed the battle and was about to be court–martialled.

Delarivier scowled at the ceiling. She would never get back to sleep now and it felt like an inconceivable waste to lie awake here. She beguiled the time away by hatefully imagining Minister Vestra, curled up in his satin sheets, peacefully dozing the rest of the night away in a giant four poster– bed…

No, that wasn’t right, she had to admit. She had been in Minister Vestra’s quarters before and his bed was narrow and plain. There was one pillow. It looked like a lump of calcified rock. There was a knife hidden under that pillow and two others under the thin, lumpy mattress. The rest of the room was filled with bookshelves, containing neat (fake) files of official documents, a heavy desk and, for reasons best known to himself, three different iron maidens. No wonder he never slept.

Now Prime Minister Aegir, he had no excuse. Delarivier was certain that, at minimum, he slept on silk pillowcases. She didn’t know how he kept his long hair so smooth and shiny otherwise. She could easily imagine how large and soft his bed would be. Plump, cloud–like duvets, she bet. Only one knife, probably, put somewhere within reach but not where he was likely to accidentally stab himself.

If she had a bed like that, she would spend her whole life in it. Anyone else would, she bet. Put Minister Vestra in it and he would –

Wait.

Delarivier closed her eyes, rewound the day in her head. Minister Vestra’s begrudging apology. Prime Minister Aegir’s hand on his elbow. The flush on the Prime Minister’s neck; the glint in Minister Vestra’s eye. Two men on a balcony, lost in each other, ignoring the world and, more importantly, their long–suffering aides.

Sodding Sothis, she was a fucking _genius._

***

“You’re a fucking lunatic,” said Driss flatly.

Delarivier found him in one of the smaller offices, surrounded by correspondence. “You’re awfully grumpy for someone who just got enough sleep for the first time in Goddess knows how long,” she said, perching on the edge of the desk.

“Yes, no, yes, no but make it sound like an almost–yes, no and make it sound like fuck–off,” Driss said, sorting out the letters in complicated piles in front of him. They were teetering. “And yes, I am awfully grumpy. Maybe it’s because that’s going to be the last decent amount of sleep I get for a while. Maybe for the rest of my life. I don’t know what your boss said to my boss yesterday night but he’s dead–set on a museum now. And an art gallery. And _“actually, Driss, do you not think we ought to have a rotating series of scholarly exhibitions at both!?”_ ”

Minus the edge of hysteria, it was actually a pretty good impression of the Prime Minister.

“Yeah, Minister Vestra’s been a nightmare this morning,” said Delarivier. “But you see how _I_ am not taking it out on the Prime Minister’s aide. In fact, _I_ am a constructive problem solver and have come up with a plan of considerable mutual benefit.”

“Aggghhh,” said Driss as one of his piles collapsed into the other. He put his head on the table.

“Listen,” said Delarivier. “Where is Prime Minister Aegir going to be two weeks from now, at three in the afternoon?”

“Ribbon– cutting ceremony at the Mittelfrank opera house, followed by a meeting with Emperor Edelgard about grain tariffs in the Hevring territory,” said Driss automatically, his voice muffled by paper.

“What teas does he have by his bedside?”

“Southern Fruit Blend for night, Almyran Pine for the morning. Bergamot in a pinch.”

“When’s his favorite horse’s birthday?”

“Prime Minister Aegir loves all his horses equally,” said Driss. “But Astraea was born on the nineteenth day of the Ethereal Moon.”

“After Minister Vestra dines with the Emperor, another meal always has to be prepared because she has a sweet tooth and he won’t admit he doesn’t,” Delarivier said. “His preference is for the two–fish saute with Caledonian crayfish and Albinean herring. He’s got a tooth cleaning appointment today at six and half an hour beforehand, he’s going to get me to cancel it as always. He likes board games.”

“Please stop wiggling your eyebrows like that,” said Driss. “I find it disconcerting.”

“Minister Vestra has a box of velvet ribbons in his desk drawer,” said Delarivier. “I thought they were for bookmarks, which would have been weird enough. But now I’m pretty sure they’re just hair ribbons he thought might look nice in red hair.”

“Goddess,” said Driss, looking mildly nauseated, as well he might when considering the pathetic condition of his employer and Minister Vestra’s love life. “What makes you think they won’t sort it out themselves eventually? They had drinks together yesterday. Maybe if we just wait long enough, they’ll – you know.”

He made an involved hand gesture.

Delarivier scoffed.

“Right, and look what happened after yesterday,” she said. “Listen, were you in the war? We used to joke that we couldn’t tell if it was King Dimitri coming for us or Minister Vestra and Prime Minister Aegir taking tea. Their bickering was legendary. It’s two steps forward and three back with them. But with _us_ in charge? We know _everything_ about them. We know when they _bathe_ for Sothis’s sake! I mean, we could be selling all this information to Faerghus or the Leicester Alliance but we’re _not_ , are we? We’re just giving love a little nudge! With silver gauntlets on, because if we have to wait for them to pull it together, _our eyes will be dust in our sockets, okay?_ ”

“You got spit on this letter,” said Driss, frowning.

“Come on,” said Delarivier. “Can you at least try to pick up what I’m putting down here? I’m not so much putting it as I am slamming it down repeatedly. If they spend their free time getting laid, it means they won’t be working, which means we won’t have to either!”

Driss stopped examining the letter. His face was expressionless as he stood up, and there was finality in the movement.

“Okay, fine!” said Delarivier, hopping off his desk hurriedly. “I can take the hint. I’ll find my own way out.”

She stomped towards the door, vowing to set the next bag of lances he carried on fire.

“The Prime Minister has bags of Dagdan coffee in his office,” said Driss, just as her hand landed on the doorknob. He spoke slowly, a man coming to a decision. “And some in his living quarters as well, though I don’t believe those have ever been opened. The Prime Minister does not drink coffee, it disagrees with his digestive system.”

When Delarivier turned to face Driss, she had a smile like a red– bellied piranha.

***

“Minister Vestra,” said Delarivier, standing to attention when he entered the room. She kept her face still and disinterested, crossing the room to lay a series of folders on his table. “I’ve prepared the dossiers for you, sir. If I may draw your attention to this particular –”

“What is this?” said Minister Vestra. He stood staring at the note on his desk. Minister Vestra lifted it and his nostrils flared briefly as he recognized the scent. Delarivier hid her smile. She thought the spritz of the Prime Minister’s bright cologne had been a masterful stroke.

“Sir?” said Delarivier, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, the note? The Prime Minister’s aide brought it this morning. I’ve tested it for poison and reviewed the note for hidden messages or cyphers and found nothing, sir.”

“You read this?” said Minister Vestra, frowning.

“Yes, sir,” Delarivier said, innocently flustered by his sharp tone. Minister Vestra did not look pleased, not that he could say anything about it since it was literally her job to review his correspondence for scheduling conflicts, issues of urgent political implication and/or assassination attempts. There was nothing particularly private about the note anyway, and she’d know since she and Driss had written it.

~~My dear Hubert,~~

~~Esteemed Minister Vestra,~~

Hubert,

~~Nothing would give me greater delight than if you could join me for a tipple and convince me of what a terrible idea it is to take on the development of a museum on top of everything else~~

~~Your presence is required at four bells sharp. Find enclosed a carton of your preferred beverage, which has been untampered with -~~

I hope this finds you well. I deeply regret the culmination of our last discussion and hope that you can spare me some time today to join me again today for a drink and some further conversation.

~~Regards,~~

~~Fondest regards~~

~~Best regards,~~

~~Love,~~

Sincerely yours,

~~Your own Ferdinand~~

~~Prime Minister Ferdinand (von) Aegir~~

Ferdinand

(“Nothing irritates Minister Vestra more than unnecessary verbiage.”

“It’s never going to sound like it came from Prime Minister Aegir without at least one adverb in there in there!”)

“Would you like me to write to the Prime Minister declining? I believe you have a dentist appointment then,” said Delarivier, all efficient solicitude.

Minister Vestra was still staring at that extremely innocuous letter like he expected it to morph into a feral King Dimitri and he started at her question. “No, that will not be necessary,” he said shortly. “Cancel my appointment this afternoon, I will meet with Prime Minister Aegir.”

“I will do so right away, sir,” said Delarivier obediently.

“I am not sure how long this meeting will take, so do not bother waiting for me,” said Minister Vestra, lips twisting slightly in a way that Delarivier was pretty sure, contextually, meant that he was self– conscious.

Delarivier bowed as low as she reasonably could to hide the unholy glee in her eyes.

***

Something something watched pots never boiling, basic human right to privacy and all that, conceded Delarivier as she skulked around the rooms of the east wing, looking for a handy balcony that overlooked the Prime Minister’s office.

Watched pots might not boil but they also did not explode. Delarivier smiled as the lock clicked open under her ministrations and she stepped into what looked like an old drawing room with a nicely placed window. Or anyway, if they did, you could get out of the way.

Delarivier moved the heavy curtain aside slightly. The Prime Minister was seated with Minister Vestra, fussing with a coffeepot. He wore his hair tied back today, a look Minister Vestra favoured, if the mildly concussed look on the man’s face was anything to go by. It was a remarkably good view. Delarivier was astonished Minister Vestra had never noticed and she made a note to discreetly bring it to his attention at some point. Goddess forbid someone spy on the Prime Minister.

Well, someone besides her, of course. But it was different, she was trying to do the man a favour, not murder him –

“Hi,” said a voice beside her.

“Gah!” said Delarivier, reaching instinctively for her magic even while a part of her wondered how on earth she was going to explain to Minister Vestra what she was doing in an abandoned drawing room when she foiled the assassination attempt.

“Calm down, it’s only me,” said Driss. Maybe he had been in the war after all, he had drawn his knives awfully quickly.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

“I imagine I’m doing the same thing you are,” he said. “Shamelessly rubbernecking. Move over, the Prime Minister is saying something.”

Driss unlocked the window and pushed it open slightly. It wasn’t much but if she concentrated, Delarivier was able to hear Prime Minister Aegir saying:

“– hope your staff will be more judicious with the placements of the sigils this time. Mercedes still makes pointed comments about the number of them placed under her bed.”

“I will never live that down, I suppose,” said Minister Vestra. “I had no idea that agent would be so prurient. I had him dealt with, I assure you.”

“As I recall, we were scrambling over the diplomacy talks at the time and severely understaffed,” said Prime Minister Aegir. “I am sure however you dealt with the man, it was sufficient.” 

(“It was,” said Delarivier to Driss, who eyed her dubiously.) 

“As for myself, I have been finalizing the entertainment,” Prime Minister Aegir continued, “How fortunate that their arrival happens to coincide with the Mittelfrank’s reopening! Dorothea has been collaborating with the healer at our War Sickness Centre, you know – I believe they have the patients putting on plays. I thought a selection of theatre, as performed by our veterans, would be quite touching and showcase the work we have been doing nicely. Apparently the one about Farghus’s King Loog is quite popular and I believe it has many parallels to – ” 

“Plays,” Minister Vestra said, saying the word the way a fastidious housewife held a dead rat by her fingertips. “You have our war–sick veterans partaking in Faerghian theatre. This is that colleague of Lindhart’s, isn’t she? Wasn’t she a conscientious objector of the war?”

“Yes, I believe she was in prison for a while!” Prime Minister Aegir said brightly.

“How much funding is this project receiving again?” Minister Vestra’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh no you do not, Hubert,” Prime Ministered Aegir laughed. “You should come out one day and see its success. Veterans who have trouble remembering they are no longer on the fields of Gronder, able to see themselves reflected in the experiences of others and even embody them safely in performance. I do not have the words for what it brings me. And anyway, we agreed a long time ago not to interfere in each other’s work. And you know how I am about precedent!”

“Then you also know what Lady Edelgard and I do with unsound precedent,” said Minister Vestra. “We dismantle them.”

“You think the separation between our offices is unsound?” said Prime Minister Aegir, smiling right into Minister Vestra’s face.

In this warm and windy afternoon, the Prime Minister shone. His bright hair flickered in the breeze, strands snaking into his eyes and mouth as he spoke, haloing his face like a disobedient nimbus. His eyes were warm and honeyed. Minister Vestra’s hand lifted involuntarily and Delarivier's eyes widened as he reached out to tuck a strand of Prime Minister Aegir’s hair behind his ear.

It stayed there as he said, “Professionally, I cannot see it as anything but necessary. Your work only benefits the people of Adrestia. Personally, however...”

“Holy shit,” said Driss right in her ear. “This is it!”

The three of them, Delarivier, Driss and the Prime Minister of Adrestia, held their breath for what seemed like a decade before Minister Vestra dropped his hand, not finishing his sentence.

“Macuil’s tits,” groaned Delarivier as the two men suddenly seemed to remember their cups, scrabbling for them confusedly. Driss had fallen backwards in an attitude of despair and lay on the dusty floor with his hand over his face.

“I,” said Prime Minister Aegir, always desperate to paper over an awkward situation even when he should have just let it descend into the inevitable. “I cannot have you so casually dismiss the work you do, Hubert! You do what is necessary and it is no less for the good of the Empire that you do it.”

“I do not know if that has ever been true, Ferdinand,” Minister Vestra said. “You saw the truth of me when you were eighteen. I don’t care for ‘the good of the Empire’, as you say, in abstract. My work is done to further Lady Edelgard’s interests, and yours. Adrestia is only fortunate in me because the two of you care so much for its people.”

Prime Minister’s Aegir’s face went completely red, clashing hotly with his hair. Delarivier thought it was surely because Minister Vestra had just admitted to caring about him at least as much as he cared for the Emperor but, “I cannot accept that, Hubert,” Prime Minister Aegir exclaimed. The tea–set shook with his agitation and Minister Vestra narrowly avoided coffee down the front of his vest.

“Ferdinand,” he started to say, but the Prime Minister continued as if Minister Vestra had not spoken.

“Dorothea has told me that members of your night staff appear to escort any of her singers who have complained of harassment. The small booksellers in Enbarr report signed shipments of Bernadetta’s latest series. Aid is sent wherever Caspar and Lindhart report famine or sickness, almost before their letters arrive! And please do not think I have not noticed your agents in the orphanages. You came up with those ideas – not any of us. Adrestia is lucky to have you. As are we!”

“Driss, get up,” hissed Delarivier.

He did and nearly fell out of the window as the Prime Minister leaned forward, taking Minister Vestra’s hand in his. More quietly, he added, “As am I.”

Minister Vestra coloured. All he seemed able to say was, “You knew about the orphanages?” 

“Of course I did,” Prime Minister Aegir said, rolling his eyes. Then his voice softened, gazing at Minister Vestra. “You act as if your affections are limited, as if spending them too freely will bankrupt you. And I have only seen the opposite of that. Sometimes, it seems you are afraid to show your care. As if doing so will cause someone to snatch it from you.”

Minister Vestra looked away then. “You think me a better man than I am, Ferdinand,” he said. “You always have.”

“Not always,” said Prime Minister Aegir wrily and Minister Vestra actually laughed. Prime Minister Aegir sat back in his chair, looking well pleased with himself. Delarivier wasn’t sure what he was so smug about since, as far as she could see, he and Minister Vestra weren’t sucking face like they clearly wanted to.

“It is nice to have some time with you again, Hubert,” Prime Minister Aegir said. He still kept his hand over Minister Vestra’s. “Sometimes it seems like there are not enough hours in the day.”

A dark look passed over Minister Vestra’s face and Delarivier knew he was going to say something snippy about the amount of time Prime Minister Aegir would have if he didn’t insist on turning every stray thought in his head into a project for the betterment of Adrestia. She’d gathered as much from his black mutterings all day yesterday.

 _Don’t do it,_ she thought very hard at him. _Don’t do it, don’t do it._

“You would have much more time,” said Minister Vestra, “if you didn’t –”

“I’m going to warp you,” said Delarivier urgently. “You’ve got to stop this, I don’t care how.”

Driss was still scrambling to his feet when she closed her eyes and threw the spell over him, praying that she managed to relocate him properly and not leave half of him stuck in a wall. Half a second later, Minister Vestra was interrupted by a loud banging on the Prime Minister’s door and Driss appeared. He looked queasy, but thankfully, that was easily explained by the look Minister Vestra was giving him.

“I apologize for the interruption!” said Driss, bowing low. “But I was – ah – working on a memo in preparation for the upcoming vote on educational reform and thought to clarify a point with you, Prime Minister. I am sorry if this is not a good time, sir –”

“It is,” said Minister Vestra, the same time as the Prime Minister said, “It isn’t.”

They looked at each other, and then away again.

“I mean,” said Prime Minister Aegir, standing. “Of course, it is. Minister Vestra was just leaving.”

“I am,” said Minister Vestra. “I have some paperwork of my own. Hopefully my aide Lavie has not already left for the day.”

“I am sure she has not, Minister Vestra,” said Driss, pointedly not looking upwards at the window overlooking the balcony. 

Delarivier grit her teeth and closed the window silently. She ran the rest of the way back to the office.

***

Driss found her while the moon was high in the sky. Delarivier was in the Great Hall of the palace, where the tables and chairs had been set out for the banquet that would welcome the Leicester Alliance. She was currently under the seat that would be Lady Hilda Goneril’s, painstakingly etching in the additional sigils that Minister Vestra had decided, coincidentally right after he stormed into the office following tea with the Prime Minister, were absolutely necessary. And why had Delarivier not noticed the glaring concerns with security the first fifteen times they had gone over the plan together? Was she aware that her job title was “aide” and not “abet”?

To give him credit, an act that Delarivier was absolutely in no mood to do, Minister Vestra was currently on his hands and knees in the room that would be Khalid von Riegan’s, absolutely festooning it with listening spells. If von Riegan even sneezed in magic, she fully expected the bed to explode. It was another item on her increasingly neverending list, somewhere above “get my boss laid”: slip in when Minister Vestra wasn’t looking and remove enough sigils to prevent an international incident.

She heard the door creak open and stuck her head out from between the chair legs. “Watch it,” she said. “There are at least seven traps that are supposed to go off if unauthorized personnel walk too close.”

Driss froze. “How on earth are you going to tell authorized from unauthorized personnel?”

“Well I have a list, don’t I,” said Delarivier sourly. “And I’m to go to all of them and get a sample of bodily fluid. Yes, that absolutely includes the guests and the contract staff we’ve had to hire for this event. All three hundred fifty of them.”

“You’re to go up to _Byleth Eisner, the Ashen Demon,_ and ask her to spit in a cup so she doesn’t get torn apart by one of Minister Vestra’s security measures?”

Delarivier just made a noise and disappeared under the table again.

Driss made his way carefully towards her. “So,” he said. “I think that went pretty well, all things considered.”

“And I quote, ‘are you a fucking lunatic?’” Delarivier said. “I can’t imagine how it could have gone worse. I thought Minister Vestra was going to snap my neck when I couldn’t find him the seating chart immediately.”

“I don’t know how the Prime Minister abides that man,” said Driss. “Or you, for that matter.”

“Unlike the noble in this room with apparently limitless resources, I can’t afford to lose my position,” Delarivier said.

“You’re not noble?” Driss said. “Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Delarivier popped her head out, just to roll her eyes at him. “Isn’t that part of your job? Keeping track of that kind of thing?”

“That kind of thing doesn’t matter. Not in the world Emperor Edelgard and Prime Minister Aegir are building,” said Driss seriously. 

“Minister Vestra is building it with them,” said Delarivier. “That’s why I work for him.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Driss said, crouching down beside her. “About the not–being–noble thing, I mean.”

Sometimes people said that to her like it was meant to be a compliment. Driss didn’t though. For that alone, Delarivier tried an explanation.

“I worked on it,” she said. “The accent, I mean. I’m from a village around Hrym territory originally. Where the Prime Minister’s father – well, my family went to Ordelia land but people weren’t kind about us going, or staying there for that matter. When it looked like I had even a little bit of talent at magic, I joined up but it wasn’t hard to tell where I came from. Changed my name. And as I got promoted, it was easier for everyone if I just… acted more like them.”

Every time she corrected people who assumed her nobility based on her posture, her accent, her position in Minister Vestra’s staff, Delarivier got angrier. Every day she wanted to just let their assumptions stand, avoid the surprise and then the condescension, and the wanting made her angrier still. For all his unpleasantness, Minister Vestra understood that. One day he had walked in on her in the operations tent, struggling not to bite the face off a condescending young lordling cavalier. After he made short work of the man, Minister Vestra looked at her. “It will not always be like this,” he said. “Emperor Edelgard will make it so.” 

Driss kept looking at her and she couldn’t tell what he was reading on her face. It made her feel skittish.

“Minister Vestra treats me like someone who deserves to be in charge. Well.” Delarivier scowled as she dug her knife harder than warranted into the bottom of the chair. “On the days where he’s not overwhelmed with sexual frustration and decides to make me take it out on the seating plan, anyway. Sothis, Prime Minister Aegir was _holding his hand!_ How much harder does it need to be?”

“‘The adversity of childhood maltreatment can have very detrimental effects on self-esteem and, accordingly, attachment styles’,” Driss said knowingly, tapping the side of his nose. “That’s what I heard Lord Hevring say to Emperor Edelgard once and she gave him a very nasty look.”

“What does that even mean,” Delarivier said flatly.

“Minister Vestra doesn’t believe he deserves to be loved,” Driss said. “Probably because of childhood trauma.”

“Minister Vestra would be right,” Delarivier said. “Do you know how many more chairs I have to do after this?”

“We just need to convince Prime Minister Aegir to convince Minister Vestra that he’s wrong,” Driss said.

Delarivier parsed the sentence. “And how do you propose we do that?” 

“I am so glad you asked,” Driss said. “Here, I’ve made you a folder. It’s colour– coded.”


	2. nothing to lose but chains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good christ, can you believe i once thought i could get this all written up as a one-shot and posted on sept 1?
> 
> my next fic is going to be exactly 3000 words of PWP, i swear it.
> 
> also fuck u, fe3h timeline

The next two weeks or so went something like this:

On the fourteenth day of the Blue Sea Moon, Prime Minister Aegir and Minister Vestra found themselves locked in Minister Vestra’s poison closet for forty-five minutes. It was Minister Vestra’s annual cleaning out of expired potions. Prime Minister Aegir was attempting to retrieve a broom to sweep up shards of a tea-set Driss had brushed by too quickly.

“What in flames do you mean the door won’t open? Look, all you need to do is –”

“And now you have twisted the knob off. Brilliant, Hubert, truly. Just stand back and let me –”

Around the corner, Driss lounged against the wall while Delarivier paced back and forth. “I can give them five more minutes,” she said. “Minister Vestra is supposed to be meeting with the seneschal of House Gerth to finalize his notes on Alliance imports before the visit.”

Driss held up his hand. The sounds of yelling had died down, becoming lower, more intimate murmurs.

Then:

“Stay still, you idiot! In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re surrounded by toxic substances, all of which are _very delicate!_ ”

Delarivier sighed, stood up, and rounded the corner. “Minister Vestra?” she called. “I am sorry to interrupt your cataloging, sir but you have that meeting – oh, you and Prime Minister Aegir are trapped in there? And the doorknob came off in your hand? How strange! What a total surprise! Yes, of course, I will fetch the locksmith immediately and speak to the housekeepers…”

Shaking his head, Driss crossed something off on his notes.

On the seventeenth day of the Blue Sea Moon, Prime Minister Aegir slipped on his way out of the council meeting. Fortunately, Minister Vestra was right behind him, Delarivier having stepped neatly out of the way after aiming a discreet kick at the Prime Minister’s ankles. He fell back into Minister Vestra’s arms like a luxuriantly-tressed tree. Minister Vestra’s arm went around the Prime Minister’s waist instinctively. Flustered, Prime Minister Aegir turned to thank his rescuer, treating Minister Vestra to a mouthful of soft, red hair. Whereupon Minister Vestra dropped him.

Later, Delarivier shook the page at Driss and then set it on fire in front of him.

On the twenty second day of the Blue Sea Moon, Driss and Delarivier were back in the abandoned drawing room where they had taken to meeting as a discreet halfway point between their respective offices. She was sprawled on the floor, arm over her face.

The preparations for the Leicester visit were well underway. Minister Vestra was currently obsessing over the menus and refused to let anyone have any input. He had made six cooks cry so far. Prime Minister Aegir wanted to keep all seventy-two points of his welcome speech, but cut it by two paragraphs. He also kept trying to organize visits to his various institutes and could not be convinced to pick just one.

“Sit up,” Driss said, wearily, nudging Delarivier with his foot. “You’re going to fall asleep like that.”

“Just five minutes,” muttered Delarivier, as if she could get any kind of rest the way she jittered. She felt brittle with exhaustion but had ingested enough caffeine to feel like she was having a heart attack every time she sat down. Driss was barely in better shape. When they talked, his eyes stopped focusing every five minutes or so. It was disconcerting, but then, Delarivier had never really worked with Lindhart von Hevring during the war.

Driss consulted his folder of colour-coded notes. It was a far cry from its original perky, hopeful state. The binder was creased, the paper inside splattered, torn and, occasionally, singed.

“Let’s see. Version four of Plan C, subpara (a) says,” Driss said wearily, “we convince Emperor Edelgard to send them both on a mission where they have to pretend to be married. Bonus, they’re also gone for that period of time.”

“I don’t know how on earth you’re going to convince the Emperor to do that,” Delarivier said. “But imagine a world where they disappeared for a month or two or however long it takes to fake a relationship, fall in love for real, and complete some undercover mission for the empire.”

There was a brief silence as they contemplated that world, only broken by a longing whimper Delarivier wouldn’t own up to.

“Maybe convincing the Emperor to invent a mission requiring them to fake a relationship for the good of the Adrestian Empire is a tad out of our power for now,” Driss conceded. “But what about subpara (b)? That seems doable.”

“I liked that one,” Delarivier said. “Messing up their room assignments on a diplomatic mission so they have to share a bed? Very possible. But Minister Vestra doesn’t have anything like that on his calendar for months.”

“Nor Prime Minister Aegir. And to be honest, I’m not sure I’ll even survive till the end of this Leicester Alliance visit,” Driss said gloomily. He consulted subparagraphs (c) to (g). “Trap them in a snowed-in hut together? It’ll be ages before it’s cold enough in Enbarr and they don’t have any trips to Faerghus lined up. Oh, this one seems promising! What if we find someone to flirt with Prime Minister Aegir, so Minister Vestra gets jealous?”

Delarivier laughed unpleasantly. “And where do we find someone with a death-wish,” she said.

Driss nudged her with his foot again, much less gently.

“Ouch, fuck off!” Delarivier said, sitting up and rubbing her side.

“I don’t see you coming up with anything brilliant,” he said petulantly.

“I’ve already told you my idea and you keep shooting it down.” Delarivier said. “Minister Vestra has a shelf of aphrodisiacs -”

“That’s biological warfare, Delarivier!” Driss said, as he had done the first two times she’d brought it up.

Delarivier subsided sulkily. After a minute, she said, “And anyway, why does it have to be someone to flirt with the Prime Minister so Minister Vestra gets jealous? Why can’t it be the other way around?”

“Oh come on,” Driss said. “You can’t seriously be asking this question. Prime Minister Aegir is charming, pleasant and has a profile that should be minted on a coin. And then you could bounce that coin off his ass. Minister Vestra is. You know.”

“Excuse me! Some people like them brooding!” Delarivier said. “And what little there is of his – okay, I don’t want to think about his ass but Minister Vestra is – alright, he’s not charming and he’s not pleasant but he has his qualities!”

“Literally just the other day, you said, and I quote, ‘I hope Minister Vestra trips and falls into his own iron maiden and then that iron maiden falls off a cliff’,” Driss said.

“Literally just the other day, _you_ said and _I_ quote, ‘I wish I could strangle Prime Minister Aegir with his own hair and feed him to his horses’,” Delarivier said.

They glared at each other, Driss apparently able to focus his eyes without trouble for the first time that time (or early morning, at this point). For one brief, wild moment, Delarivier was on the verge of breaking his aquiline nose, so close that she could almost feel the crunch of his bones on her knuckle.

Then she realised she was about to fight Driss over an argument over Minister Vestra’s sex appeal – or lack thereof – and her unthinking rage winking off like someone had pinched out a flame.

“This is ridiculous,” she said.

Driss blinked once, twice, then deflated. “Suffering Sothis,” he said, appalled. “I was this close to stabbing you.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Delarivier sneered automatically, but Driss was dragging his hands down his face and leaving streaks of dust in the wake.

“I think I’m going insane,” he said to himself.

“Severe sleep deprivation will do that to you,” Delarivier said, not unsympathetically.

“It’s not that,” Driss said.

“It definitely is,” Delarivier said. “You have bags under your eyes that hang almost to your cheekbones.”

Driss shot her a nasty look. “If we’re going to talk about eyes – wait, don’t distract me. It’s not that,” he insisted. “It’s just – do you know, you’re the only person I’ve spoken to outside of work for months? And that’s only on a technicality, because you’re still palace staff, you’re just not Prime Minister Aegir’s staff. And still, all we ever do is talk about is the Prime Minister and Minister Vestra.”

“It’s not about work though, it’s about their love life,” Delarivier protested. She paused. “I suppose that’s not better.”

“It really isn’t,” Driss said.

Delarivier felt a trickle of alarm. Driss had tossed his folder to the side, not at all a good sign. He had treated that thing like the Adrestian Constitution for the past two weeks, referring back to it in a way that, in retrospect, was slightly manic and had probably been a warning. Now, he looked unspeakably despondent. Delarivier had never seen his hands so still.

“You’re tired,” she said soothingly, trying not to let her scrambling show. “We’ve both been worked to the bone marrow. What you need is some sleep and –”

“I thought I would lose this role after peace was declared,” Driss said, as if he hadn’t heard her. “Callista wrote to me saying she was going to change the family name – change it back, that is. For good reason, my I-don’t-know-how-many-greats-grandfather renamed himself von Bartz after they built Fodlan’s Locket to keep Almyra out.”

“I remember when your sister’s formal request came,” Delarivier said. It had caused a stir in Enbarr. Emperor Edelgard had graciously accepted the change since being at peace with von Riegan at the head of the Leicester Alliance for now meant, purportedly, being at some kind of detente with Almyra as well. But if she suspected that Minister Vestra had immediately embedded some spies in the von Bartz household and set a watch on the Prime Minister’s new aide, she had not interfered.

“I went to Prime Minister Aegir before Callista’s letter came,” Driss said. “I thought it would be easier if I at least had the opportunity to resign but he wouldn’t let me. Looking back on it, I can see what a ridiculous political faux pas it could have been to get rid of me since our peace talks with von Riegan and the Leicester Alliance were just really beginning. But I don’t think that was it.”

“Even if it had been, he would have found some way to keep you, I expect,” Delarivier said wrily. It was one of Minister Vestra’s favourite grouses about the Prime Minister: his bloody-minded determination or, as Minister Vestra put it, “being too stupid to stop.”

“And now I just want to leave,” Driss said. “It’s weak, I know. It’s not like Prime Minister Aegir isn’t pulling the similar hours but there’s a difference when you’re the one with the choice to stop. But I need this role.”

“Why? I know Emperor Edelgard’s working on reforming the nobility but getting rid of your titles doesn’t mean that all that wealth is going to disappear overnight,” Delarivier said. Try as she might, the edge was in her voice. “Or the education you’ve received, or all the people you’ve grown up with who can vouch for you as a ‘jolly good fellow, what ho’. You could walk out of here and find something else.”

“If this Leicester visit doesn’t go well, or if Khalid von Riegan can’t maintain his position in Almyra,” Driss said, “and Fodlan’s new tolerance does not endure, I need to be able to see the tides turn in time.”

Delarivier looked at Driss. His dense curl of dark hair; his skin gilded from summer. She suspected he would retain most of that colour through the Red Wolf Moon and all the cold, foggy days that followed. Delarivier was inconspicuous looking and had honed that into her own type of weapon. She had not considered what growing up the opposite might do to you.

“Right,” Delarivier said. “Well. That makes sense to me. Uh. For what it’s worth, I would give you a heads up if I noticed anything in the course of my work with Minister Vestra. Within reason,” she added.

Driss was wide-eyed, looking genuinely touched. If he noticed that her promise was dangerously close to treason, he didn’t say so. Not that it was in his best interests to do so. Anyway, Delarivier didn’t think that any government willing to turn people into politically expedient targets was worth her serving.

The irony of that stance contrasted with her complete willingness to manipulate two people for her own ends was completely ignored. Delarivier had made it up to her position as Minister Vestra’s aide by competence, not a consistent moral framework.

“I think you deserve to walk out of here into any role you wish,” blurted Driss, red-faced. “Anyone would be lucky to have you! And, er, if things ever got really bad, you know, there’s always room on our peach farms.”

“That’s a real comfort to me, Driss,” Delarivier said. “But to be honest, I’d really rather eat rocks than go back to farming.”

A brief silence descended, both of them studying their feet.

They broke it at the same time: 

“So how about we go to Minister Vestra’s cabinet and start with ‘A’ -”

“We’ve been going about this all wrong -” 

“Yes, I agree,” Delarivier said patiently. “Once we’re in the cabinet, the one we one we want is purple and I think the active ingredient is v. tricolor -”

“For the last time _no_ , Delarivier,” Driss said. “The problem is we haven’t been ambitious enough. Locking them in a closet, toppling them into each other’s arms - pah, I say!”

He leapt to his feet, sweeping the binder off the ground with a flourish. “We’ve barely given them an hour with each other,” he said. Delarivier started to open her mouth. “Look, yes, I know - they argue, they storm off, the cycle repeats. But what if storming off isn’t an option?”

“Right! Trap them somewhere they can’t get out and keep them there for a day!” Delarivier said. “A month if necessary!”

“What?” Driss said. “Listen, after this we really should take some time to talk about your idea of romance. I was thinking of some big project that means too much for them to walk away from - you know, something that keeps them working together for the same goals so they have no choice but to appreciate how they complement each other and, coincidentally, also how good the other smells! I am talking about this enormous opportunity that you and I have been wasting! I’m talking about the visit from the Leicester Alliance!”

Delarivier narrowed her eyes at him.

“Let me break it down,” Driss said with an attempt at a twinkle that reassured her he was back to normal, but of not much else.

***

Delarivier knocked on Prime Minister Aegir’s door, with Araminta Janely, the head cook. Araminta was a tall, sturdy woman who towered over Delarivier by an easy foot and a half. She was scowling.

Delarivier and Araminta had a fraught relationship on account of “a truly negligible amount of _digitalis_ ,” as Delarivier had explained to an unsympathetic Driss, that Minister Vestra had once instructed her to slip into a visiting dignitary’s cream of scallop soup. It wasn’t her fault that Araminta’s overzealous sous-chef thought to do another quality check before serving it. Berenice had been fine in the end!

Anyway, Delarivier suspected that the real reason for Araminta’s long-lasting ire was the five minute delay between courses caused by Berenice’s collapse.

Delarivier had to hand it to the other woman though. She put her personal feelings aside for the greater good - i.e. getting Minister Vestra out of the kitchen’s collective hair - and was surprisingly committed to the role. Araminta usually gave people the impression of a battle axe coming at you very quickly, on account of her prominent nose and also everything else about her. But as Driss led them towards Prime Minister Aegir’s desk, she rearranged her features and started twisting her apron, looking sweetly anxious.

Prime Minister Aegir looked up from his fervent scribbling and smiled at them. “Ah, Ms. Lavie, Ms. Jane,” he said. “This is truly a pleasure! I do not have the opportunity to speak to you as frequently as I would like. Please sit! What may I help you with today?”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” Araminta started. Driss and Delarivier exchanged a look. Araminta had diction that could cut glass.

“Are you ill, Ms. Janely? How remiss of me!” said Prime Minister Aegir. “May I pour you both some tea? I have chamomile brewing today. It should help with that cold of yours.”

“Ah yes,” Araminta said weakly, as Driss passed her the cup. She coughed fakely once, twice. “Thank you very much, Prime Minister. Clears me - I mean, clears my throat right out.”

“Now, what is this all about?” Prime Minister Aegir said. “I would be happy to help in any capacity.”

Araminta took in a deep breath. “Not to complain, sir, but we’d also like your assistance overseeing the menus. Minister Vestra is very...thorough, sir, but some of his orde - requests are more in line with considerations of national security and less in line with. Ah.”

“Taste, sir,” Delarivier said, flatly.

Araminta gave her a look that said clearly, ‘better your head than mine,’ and nodded slowly. “Unfortunately so, sir.”

“Oh dear,” Prime Minister Aegir said, clearly torn between his overpowering urge to be useful and the reality of his workload. Driss had been certain the former would win out because it had every time so far. But Prime Minister Aegir was putting up a surprisingly good fight. “I can certainly see why this has been so distressing to you, Ms. Janely but –”

This time, the look Delarivier and Driss exchanged was deeply alarmed.

“– but you see, I,” Prime Minister Aegir looked like he was in physical pain, “that is – it has repeatedly been brought to my attention – I have quite a lot on my plate – Regrettably, I –”

“Prime Minister Aegir, sir!” Delarivier. “If I may!”

“Of course, please go ahead.”

Delarivier made her face particularly expressionless. “In private, sir?”

They had not discussed this previously. Driss looked aghast. Araminta eyed her in a way that meant Delarivier should be careful if she didn’t want spit in her food for the foreseeable future.

“Oh! Well, certainly. Driss, Ms. Janely, if you will excuse us.”

And then Delarivier was seated alone with the Prime Minister, who looked like a classical sculpture if classical sculptures smiled anxiously.

Delarivier took a deep breath. “I hope I’m not overstepping, sir,” she said carefully, “I know it would take a day when you are so busy already. But I think it would be worth it to spend the time with Minister Vestra.”

Prime Minister Aegir stilled, eyes wide on her. He was a tall, striking man, equally natural astride his great black beast of a horse, Astreae as he was holding his delicate teacups, discoursing on the precise temperature at which a flowering tea released its bloom and its taste. He had once dragged Emperor Edelgard to safety, single-handedly facing down a battalion of wyvern riders to do so. He looked now like a rabbit who had cheerfully turned around the corner to encounter a fox.

“I am well aware that Minister Vestra is a man who prefers to keep his own counsel in most matters, sir, but I do not believe that is always in his best interests. I know he values your judgement,” _and wants to fuck you silly then braid your hair afterwards_ , “in all matters. If I may, Prime Minister Aegir, I do not think the previous Minister of the Imperial Household was overly concerned with creating or maintaining a pleasant atmosphere for public affairs nor his private ones.”

“No,” Prime Minister Aegir said. “He was not.”

“His predecessor casts a long shadow. Minister Vestra is always vigilant, sir,” Delarivier said. “But in this case, I think his vigilance is not conducive to peace.”

Delarivier didn’t think she’d said anything particularly wise. It was bloody difficult work, playing the dedicated, discreet retainer! Delarivier felt like she was trying to speak three languages at once, at least two of them variants of the _please don’t tell Minister Vestra that I think his avoidant-attachment style is down to daddy issues_ dialect. But Prime Minister Aegir looked struck by what she’d said, nevertheless.

“Yes, I quite agree,” he said. “Perhaps we studied the same philosophers growing up, Ms. Lavie.”

Delarivier kept a straight face. “Very unlikely, sir.”

“You may send Ms. Janely back in,” Prime Minister Aegir said. “I will be more than happy to help her manage Hu – to take over the management of the menu with Minister Vestra.”

“Certainly, Prime Minister.”

“Oh, and Ms. Lavie?”

Prime Minister Aegir was smiling when Delarivier turned, hand on the doorknob, heart in her throat. “I will speak to Minister Vestra about it as well,” Prime Minister Aegir said. “If it pleases you, I will leave your name out of it entirely.”

And he winked at her.

Delarivier managed a smile and a bow before slipping out the door. Well, it was some relief to know they hadn’t made him Prime Minister only for his looks.

***

She and Driss were still bickering as they went down to meet Driss’s other contact, Lady Eugenie Dietrich, the head healer at Prime Minister Aegir’s War Sickness Centre.

“I’m not saying it wasn’t effective!” he said. “I’m just saying that a little bit of warning beforehand might have been nice.”

“Right, I was going to elbow you and stage-whisper, _Excuse me, Lord Barshah while I try to work Minister Vestra’s traumatic childhood into the conversation here_ ,” Delarivier said. “That would have been subtle.”

“If I waltzed on into Minister Vestra’s office and tried kicking you out of a private audience with him, you’d burn the tongue right out of my mouth,” Driss said. 

“Yes, and?”

Driss opened his mouth, undoubtedly about to say something unflattering about her mother, then shut it with a snap as a woman in brown came up the stairs towards them. As he bowed, making their introductions, Delarivier eyed Lady Eugenie Dietrich dubiously.

Based on Minister Vestra’s muttered imprecations and Prime Minister Aegir’s enthusiasms, she had expected someone given to vague pronouncements about butterfly wings, the universal human condition and layers of gauzy scarves. Lady Dietrich was not what she had expected at all.

She was a dark-haired, straight-browed woman with a vaguely military bearing, despite that notorious stint as a conscientious objector. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Lady Dietrich said, nodding at Delarivier. “And thank you for arranging the audience with Minister Vestra.” She smiled wrily. “I understand that he’s not particularly fond of me.”

“I think Prime Minister Aegir’s proposal for the museum and art gallery might have bumped you up in approval a bit,” Delarivier said. But not by much. She walked them through her office and knocked sharply on Minister Vestra’s door. “Lord Barshah and Lady Eugenie Dietrich to see you, sir.”

“Enter,” Minister Vestra said. He looked up as Delarivier ushered Driss and Lady Dietrich in and did not bother to stand, or stop writing. “Lavie, I just counted seven traps implemented in the Great Hall. Do you not think that’s a bit excessive, particularly since each need to be attuned to the guests and staff?”

Delarivier fought not to exchange an incredulous look with Driss. “Quite right, Minister,” she said, instead of _I could have told you it was excessive two weeks ago at three bells in the morning if you wouldn’t have ripped my face off_. “On the subject, I believe some of our other staff have been overzealous regarding the other bedrooms in the West Wing where we intend to place the Gloucester contingent.” She fixed Minister Vestra with a deliberately blank look. “Particularly in Duke von Riegan’s room, sir.”

Minister Vestra had the grace to look abashed. “Thank you for noticing, Lavie,” he said. 

“We wouldn’t want a repeat of the Mercedes von Martritz situation, sir.”

“ _Thank you, Lavie_ , that is sufficient,” Minister Vestra said quickly. “Lord Barshah, Lady Dietrich. This is a surprise.”

Driss swept Minister Vestra a low bow. “Your time is appreciated, Minister Vestra and my apologies for the imposition. Lady Dietrich had a request to make on behalf of the War Sickness Centre –”

“Is that so?” Minister Vestra fixed Lady Dietrich with a green-eyed sneer. “And what precisely do you require my influence for, Lady Dietrich? I imagine you hope I will intercede on your behalf with Prime Minister Aegir and to what end precisely?”

“You have the right of it, Minister,” Lady Dietrich said pleasantly. “Regarding the upcoming visit from the Leicester Alliance –”

Minister Vestra was capable of sneering with his whole body. It was difficult to describe precisely how he did it but even his ears looked unpleasant. “I imagine he has just told you that the notables of the Leicester Alliance will not be making a personal stop at your centre after all. You already have a fairly prominent position for someone with your past. Could it be that it’s not enough and you angle for international attention to your methods?”

Lady Dietrich opened her mouth and then closed it. She kept looking pleasant but only barely.

Driss jumped in smoothly, “We hoped that you could convince the Prime Minister that the Centre has enough to do, preparing for their patients’ performance at the Mittelfrank. They are having a private rehearsal tomorrow that Prime Minister Aegir will attend and we thought –”

“How uncharacteristically modest of you, Lady Dietrich. Perhaps you do not think that your management could withstand the closer scrutiny –”

“We thought,” Driss said through gritted teeth as if Minister Vestra hadn’t spoken, “It would be lovely if you would accompany him to the rehearsal, and persuade him that arranging a visit to the Centre, in addition to the Mittlefrank performance, is unnecessary.”

“Indeed,” Minister Vestra said. “And this is your disagreement with the Prime Minister, Lady Dietrich? I suppose after the Emperor, no one is too far above for your dissent –”

“I am not going to put my patients in the same space with people they know as enemy commanders,” Lady Dietrich snapped.

The sour look on Minister Vestra’s face could have pickled cucumbers. 

Driss slid in, smooth as an oiled fish. “To be frank, Minister Vestra, Prime Minister Aegir is going to run himself and our guests ragged if he packs the schedule so fully.”

Minister Vestra turned his baleful look onto Driss. “And why do you think he’ll listen to me, Lord Barshah?” he said. “I am well aware that his workload is increasingly unrealistic and takes up every inch of his time. It’s nothing I haven’t told him repeatedly. In fact, Enbarr will soon have a museum and art gallery as a direct result of the last conversation we had about this.”

There was a real edge of hurt in his voice. Minister Vestra looked down at his hands, fingers spread taut on the desk.

“You gravely overestimate my influence with Prime Minister Aegir,” Minister Vestra said harshly.

Driss started to open his mouth to protest but:

“I was part of Duke Aegir’s forces sent to patrol the borders of Hrym and Ordelia after Hyrm’s attempt to secede,” Lady Dietrich said out of nowhere.

Any one of Minister Vestra’s staff, day or night, knew to fly into alert at the words _Hrym_ and _Ordelia._

Minister Vestra shifted his weight and Delarivier knew he was readying himself to cast. She shifted towards Lady Dietrich’s blindspot.

“Our official orders were to protect the Empire’s borders against the Alliance but several times, under Duke Aegir’s auspice, we were told to accompany Imperial mages to Ordelia territory. We were not allowed to interfere with their work, of course.”

Lady Dietrich smiled slightly, holding Minister Vestra’s furious gaze.

“I feel the effects of that non-interference daily,” she said serenely. “They were Duke Aegir’s orders, of course, and soldiers must obey orders. It’s why I’m no longer a soldier. Why, when I started the Centre, I worked day and night until exhaustion forced me to stop. And I only served him. I was not his son.”

Minister Vestra’s eyes were small, green glitters in his lividly white face. “You dare to suggest that Prime Minister Aegir is responsible for his father –”

“ _I_ don’t think so,” Lady Dietrich said. “But what _I_ think doesn’t really matter to him, does it?” She waited a beat, then, because the woman was obviously a _suicidal maniac_ , added, “You come up in his conversation frequently, Minister. It really would mean a great deal to the Prime Minister if you accompanied him to the rehearsal tomorrow.”

***

“All’s well that ends well,” Driss said with remarkable cheer, waving goodbye to Lady Dietrich. “I’d ask you what all that was about, but then you’d have to kill me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Delarivier said. Her ears were still ringing with Minister Vestra’s thunderous silence as he saw them out but she had instructions to schedule in his attendance at the Mittelfrank. And increase the surveillance on Lady Dietrich. (“Double it. No,” Minister Vestra said. “ _Triple it._ ”)

“Driss,” she said tentatively.

“Yes?”

“This is our last shot.”

Delarivier had not expected Driss to fight and he did not, but he sighed nevertheless. “You’re right. If they can’t figure it out from here, I am certainly not going to spend the rest of my life trying to do it for them. As it is, I’m going to be here half the night catching up on work.”

“‘Half the night’, hah. I should be so lucky.”

“Maybe we can take a break in between. You could sneak me some of Minister Vestra’s coffee and we may toast to two grown men getting a semblance of a personal life.”

“To personal lives,” Delarivier said as she and Driss parted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: dinner and a movie and some consciousness raising sessions


	3. bread and roses too

The next day, Delarivier sat determinedly at her desk. Minister Vestra’s door was closed and she didn’t anticipate him opening it till he had to leave for the kitchens. Through sheer bloody-mindedness alone, Delarivier got through a report on the supervision and maintenance of wheat fields for supply to the Imperial household, the recommendation to revise the formalities of court presentation and a review of night staff reports suitable to be forwarded to the Emperor. 

She was poring over the nth iteration of the seating chart for the welcome banquet - a politically fraught task with Emperor Edelgard up-ending centuries of aristocracy - when Minister Vestra’s door finally opened and he stepped out. Catching her wide eyes, he snapped, “What?”

Not even Minister Vestra’s kindest friends could accuse him of being overly concerned with his appearance but he’d changed out of his work attire into finer clothes. They were still dark and simple but his jacket was well-fitted, a twist of fine white linen at his neck. He looked like he’d fussed with his hair. Delarivier hadn’t even known he owned pants that fashionably tight! (The Prime Minister having started a vogue for buckskin breeches, every tailor in Enbarr was producing vaguely equestrian trousers as fast as they could sew.) 

“You look nice,” Delarivier said.

Minister Vestra scowled at her self-consciously. 

“Prime Minister Aegir has informed me that he will be joining me for the tasting before I finalize the menus. I suppose he wants some supper before the rehearsal tonight.” He carried a small box; Delarivier recognized it as the one stuffed with silk and velvet ribbons. Was he wearing _jewelry_ too? Delarivier tried not to gawp but he had stuffed his hands into his pockets, entirely spoiling the line of his trousers. 

“Ms. Arnault is unkind when people arrive looking shabby to a performance, even if it is a rehearsal,” Minister Vestra said. Then he must have realised he was - for him - babbling, and shut his mouth with a snap. “I’ll have someone forward you my notes on the menu after the tasting.”

He left the room - one might almost say ‘rushed from’.

Delarivier leaned back in her chair and wished that Driss was around to share a grin with. Ah well. She bent over the seating chart again and tried to concentrate on it. It was usually one of her favourite things to do. Emperor Edelgard’s purge rendered every previous etiquette guide completely unusable, even as every major and minor house watched greedily for every new way power - or its appearance - could be manifested. They were rabidly sensitive to any perceived slight. The ability to move nobles around a table like so many pieces on a board usually thrilled her but this evening, she couldn’t settle. 

Surely Minister Vestra was going to do something tonight. Or maybe the Prime Minister would? He had taken Minister Vestra’s hand after all. Then again, he’d only taken his hand. Of course, if there was maybe a small explosion nearby to catapult him into Minister Vestra’s arms...

Delarivier stared down at her chart. No. She’d sworn off it. No meddling, no spying. They were grown men. She had work to do.

Delarivier was in Duke von Riegan’s soon-to-be bedroom thirty minutes later, sanding extraneous sigils off the bed slats. When she finished, she wiped the sawdust off herself and made a note to have one of the maids come back inside to do a final sweep. 

She really ought to go back to the seating chart.

Delarivier spun decisively on her heel and headed towards the kitchens.

***

The kitchens were in a ferment and it was easy to slip unnoticed into the hustle. Everything was steam and heat and, here and there, small bursts of fire. Araminta Janely presided over it all with as much natural authority as the Emperor and with much less mercy.

“You can stop lurking about,” Araminta said ungraciously. “I know you’re there and we’ve got enough to do what with Prime Minister Aegir trying to convince Minister Vestra last minute to serve in the Brigidian style instead of _a la Adrestia._ ”

Delarivier stepped out from behind a particularly broad footman. “He wants to _what?_ We can’t supervise the courses if they’re all brought out at once and how are we supposed to keep track of who’s putting what in the food if it’s all hanging out there where anyone can saunter by?”

“That’s exactly what Minister Vestra said.” Plainly Delarivier and Minister Vestra’s consternation was pushing Araminta into the Prime Minister’s camp. “I think it’s a good idea. Saves us a lot of staff if we don’t have to make sure every guest has an individual footman bringing out course after course to their elbow.”

“Saves _you_ a lot of staff.” Prime Minister Aegir had already added a period of light drinking and mingling before the dinner proper. Instead of having people safely in their damn seats where you could keep an eye on them, they’d had to replace all the serving staff with Imperial Household agents to keep the level of surveillance to Minister Vestra’s extremely high and extremely paranoid standards. 

Araminta shrugged with brilliant unconcern. 

“You can bring it up to Prime Minister Aegir and Minister Vestra when you see them. They’re in the Great Hall now. I’ve instructed the kitchen to steer clear of them for the rest of the night, so don’t you go ruining the atmosphere.” Araminta grinned when Delarivier gave her a sharp look. “Oh, Lord Barshah told me all about it. They’re in there now, goggling at each other like a pair of concussed goldfish.”

The Great Hall comfortably sat four hundred people and the endless weaving of servants to tend to them. The walls were high and white. Carvings ran up them, writhing, undulating columns of grapes, vines, eagles and for some godforsaken reason, cherubs, ending in bracketed cornices around the ceiling. The main dining table ran nearly the length of the room and Minister Vestra and Prime Minister Aegir sat together at the end of it. Five great chandeliers hung but Minister Vestra had chosen to light a single candelabra in their corner so they were encircled in low, gold flicker of light. The housekeepers had started work on the floral arrangements and the warm night air was lightly perfumed with their sweet, green scent. 

Or maybe Araminta just really knew how to set a romantic scene. It was awfully convenient that the florists had started building the bowers of gardenia and jasmine in the exact corner where the maids laid out a startling array of food. Delarivier padded in silently behind the servers and hid herself by a giant potted palm as they left. 

Luckily the Great Hall was wood and stone (and creepy cherubs) and there was absolutely no noise dampening. It took no effort whatsoever to hear what Prime Minister Aegir said as he leaned his head close towards Minister Vestra:

“Something heavy like a turtle soup in the Blue Sea Moon? No, I must side with Ms. Janely - a clear bouillon served with cucumbers is much more light and elegant.”

“You can’t hide anything in a clear bouillon,” protested Minister Vestra.

“Food is for eating, not for hiding things in,” Prime Minister Aegir said. “I know it is a struggle, Hubert, but please try to remember that we are at peace now and aiming to keep it so.”

“Nothing disrupts peacetime as much as an unplanned assassination, Ferdinand. Which is why I think serving in the Brigidian style is out of the question. I know _a la Adrestia_ is considered old-fashioned but it’s easier to supervise if the portions are served individually to guests.”

“Oh, but Edelgard and I think it could show that the Adrestian Empire is doing things differently, including taking Brigid seriously as its ally, not as a vassal state. And it sends a message that we are moving away from the rigid formality of the Crest hierarchy.”

“We will be serving several Brigidan courses. and the two of you have already convinced me to allow an hour of aperitifs before the dinner proper,” Minister Vestra said. He said “aperitifs” the way someone else would have said “murder rampage”. “That’s quite enough opportunity for some enterprising assassin to infiltrate the gathering and make an attempt on your and Edelgard’s life, don’t you think?”

“Other people will be there too, Hubert,” Prime Minister Aegir said, smiling. Then again, he was always smiling around the Minister Vestra. As if he couldn’t help it, as if he were a tide pulled inexorably by the moon. Small, secret smiles when Minister Vestra was being particularly dour; bright, sunny smiles when addressed directly as if he couldn’t believe his luck in being in conversation with Minister Vestra at all.

“Nobody else who matters,” Minister Vestra said. 

He put his hand over Prime Minister Aegir’s and pulled out the box of ribbons with the other. “Something for you. I’ve been buying ribbons for months now, imagining what they’d look like.”

Prime Minister Aegir’s face lit up and went soft at the same time. He looked like someone who had gotten a bad concussion but was extremely happy about it. 

Delarivier thought Minister Vestra had it from here. 

Prime Minister Aegir sighed, running his fingers through the silken pile, then looked up at Minister Vestra. “You imagined tying these in my hair?”

Yes, definitely time to go. Delarivier started to edge her way towards the door.

“Your hair,” Minister Vestra said, never breaking eye contact with Prime Minister Aegir, “and anywhere else you’d let me.”

Since Delarivier couldn’t exactly sprint out of the room for the biggest bottle of lye to pour into her ears, she heard when something squeaked under the table.

More precisely, some _one._

Delarivier dropped to her knees and sure enough, there was Driss, an extremely pained expression on his face. It did not improve when he saw her.

“What are you doing here?” he whispered. “I thought you said you were going to let them figure it out themselves!”

“Are you really trying to have the moral high ground right now,” Delarivier hissed back. “If you don’t want to overhear them _figuring it out_ more on the table, I would get out from under here very quietly and -”

“- oh, Hubert,” sighed Prime Minister Aegir, pulling away from Minister Vestra with a sound that would probably ring in Delarivier’s nightmares. “These are beautiful. Thank you.”

“I think this green one in particular would set off your jacket. May I, sweetheart?” Minister Vestra stroked his hand possessively through Prime Minister Aegir’s long, red hair and started to braid it. “To return to the security measures, I think drinks before dinner is quite enough mingling. You have no idea how many lives have been saved by a strict seating plan, Ferdinand. Much more difficult to insinuate oneself into.”

“You are right, I know,” Prime Minister Aegir said. “Nevertheless, I cannot help but hope for a day when you will not have to spend every social gathering watching for danger.”

“I doubt that will ever happen so long as you and Edelgard occupy such prominent places. Though the new spell for security that I’m testing tonight might help.”

Delarivier and Driss looked at each other.

“I set them after the servants left,” Minister Vestra continued. “Only you or I may enter or exit the Great Hall without being incinerated.”

Delarivier put her head into her hands. Beside her, Driss was pinching himself hard as if this were a nightmare he could wake both of them from.

Prime Minister Aegir studied his new braid. “Your talented fingers never disappoint,” he said, taking Minister Vestra’s gloved hand and pressing his lips to it. “How fortunate that your finalization of the menu was planned for the same night as the dress rehearsal! Dorothea is very excited that you will be there.” Prime Minister Aegir paused. Fundamentally a truthful man, he added, “Well, she said, ‘Like, of his own free will? That’s strange.’”

“By which I’m sure she means she’s overjoyed,” Minister Vestra said drily. “Before we leave, we should have all of this packed up and bring it with us to the theatre for the performers to enjoy.”

Prime Minister Aegir thought this a brilliant idea and pulled Minister Vestra in to demonstrate his admiration. Driss and Delarivier held their hands over their ears for at least five minutes and prayed for death to take them.

When they finally pulled apart, Prime Minister Aegir said, “This is what I am always talking about, Hubert. You are one of the most thoughtful people I know and the most concerned that no one should know of it.” More softly, “I promise no one could ever snatch us away from you.”

There was a silence.

“They did once,” Minister Vestra said finally.

His voice sounded like an old battleship dredged up from the sea: spiked, dark, drowned. It was more indecent to hear it than any moan.

“Hubert,” Prime Minister Aegir said gently and Delarivier risked a look. Prime Minister Aegir had both of Minister Vestra’s hands. The green ribbon coiled in his red hair like a grass snake. “I will let no one take me away from you.”

“Wow,” Driss whispered to Delarivier. “They are _intense._ ”

Minister Vestra’s hands clenched around Prime Minister Aegir’s once, twice, then he pulled himself away. “Lately I worry that I can ruin my own relationships with no outside help,” he said. “I am sorry, Ferdinand, for not telling you. I will say it as many times as you need to hear it. Secrecy is a hard habit for me to break and this one, Edelgard and I held between the two of us for so long. It was never entirely mine to share and I feared that the knowledge would put you in danger. It was one worry too many to hold.”

“Hubert, I could never hold that against you -”

“You have always been a hard worker, Ferdinand. But I have barely seen you in months. Ever since we last spoke of. Well. I cannot help but wonder if you regret -”

“Hubert!” Both Driss and Delarivier startled but the volume of Prime Minister Aegir’s voice drowned out any noise they might have made. “Please, you must not doubt that you have made me the happiest of men! I did not mean to give you any cause for unhappiness! I only wanted to prove myself worthy -”

“Worthy? Ferdinand,” Minister Vestra said with ominous calm. “What in flames are you talking about?”

Prime Minister Aegir looked away. The corners of his mouth tightened and he sat back in his chair. Minister Vestra looked at him and his own expression softed. He reached out a hand and cupped Prime Minister Aegir’s cheek. “Ferdinand, why do you feel you need to prove yourself worthy?”

“It - it is foolish, I know. You will think that I never outgrew being that obnoxious boy.” Prime Minister Aegir’s jaw worked but that was all. It was unsettling to see him so still. His posture was always excellent but now, shoulders back, spine straight, he looked brittle. “When Byleth and Edelgard brought you back that night, more bloodied than I’d ever seen. Hubert, I… you know, it was right that it was Edelgard there with you, at the end. She was the most harmed by my father and his allies.”

Minister Vestra’s eyes widened a fraction. He mouthed something soundlessly. It looked like, _‘My father’?_ Then, gaze narrowing, _Fucking Lady Dietrich._

“Please believe me when I say that I understand why you could not tell me, Hubert,” Prime Minister Aegir continued. “You did right not to. It was a reasonable supposition on your part that my family’s connections with your adversaries might unduly influence my judgement. Weaken my resolve.”

Minister Vestra huffed. “Ferdinand, you understand nothing as usual,” he said, a thread of fondness and something like relief in his voice. “No one who has ever known you could doubt your resolve in anything you undertake. As for your family, I am the last person to ever hold their father against them.”

“Of course,” Prime Minister Aegir said, but he did not sound steady. His hand went to the ribbon in his hair.

“We were both obnoxious boys, Ferdinand. I blamed you for your father’s actions and I was cruel doing it. You are nothing like Duke Aegir. You have shown me that, over and over.”

“But even as I planned to unseat him, I loved my father, Hubert,” Prime Minister Aegir said. It was something scrapped out of the core of him, bloody. “You and Edelgard both have good reason to despise him. They burn effigies of him in Hrym. When I was young, I would slip into his study on nights I could not sleep. He would stop working and take me into the kitchen to find something for us to eat.

“And he would ignore my mother weekly for minor slights. And he taught me to ride. And he turned a blind eye to _experiments on children._ And I do not know what to do with my memories of him, Hubert. I do not know how to mourn him. He is gone and you are glad and he can never do better. All I can do is try to atone for what he did but Hubert, sometimes I _miss_ him.”

Driss and Delarivier looked at each other, horrified. This had never been for them to overhear and Delarivier felt the rasp of Prime Minister Aegir’s sorrow like a hand at her throat, guilt choking the air from her. Minister Vestra was silent for several long minutes and each second of it burned.

Then he said, “ _Ferdinand_ ,” and reached over to pull the Prime Minister into his arms, pressing his face into Prime Minister Aegir’s hair. He didn’t say anything else but slowly worked his way down till he was pressing kiss after fervent kiss against Prime Minister Aegir’s forehead, his wet eyes, his cheeks, then finally his mouth. Prime Minister Aegir made a broken sound as they breathed into each other like drowning men.

“Incineration is really not sounding too bad,” Delarivier said very quietly.

“My love, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say,” Minister Vestra said finally, pulling away just enough to rest their heads together. 

Prime Minister Aegir shut his eyes. “You do not need to say anything, Hubert. I know this weakness is unfortunate - unseemly. When you finally recovered and told me all and then you asked me. Well.” His face went red. “As undeserving as I am, with all the pain my family has brought onto Fodlan itself, all I can do is endeavour to make it up to you, and to Edelgard and to Adrestia.”

“Ferdinand, look at me please.” Minister Vestra tangled his hand into Prime Minister Aegir’s hair, holding his gaze steadily. “I am sorry that I have not always been… comfortable to speak to about your father. I would like to change that. But neither Edelgard nor I hold you responsible for your father’s actions and you do not need to earn my affection when you already have it unreservedly. Waking up in the infirmary and seeing you beside me, knowing it was all over and you would be safe from their machinations, I - I was overwhelmed. If I’d known you’d spiral into guilt and overwork yourself after I asked you to marry me then -”

Several things happened, all at once:

“What the fucking goddess fuck,” Delarivier said. It came out louder than she meant to.

“They’re engaged?! This whole ti - _ouch!_ ” yelped Driss, who had sat bolt upright and smacked his head sharply onto the underside of the table. 

“Ferdie? Hubie? Ms. Janely said you two were in he - _sodding Sothis, why am I on fire?_ ”

“Dorothea!” Prime Minister Aegir cried. “Hubert, quickly! Disable your spell!”

The two men scrambled to their feet, Minister Vestra tracing sigils in the air while Dorothea Arnault told him at great length and very crudely what he could do with his security measures and where he could put them. 

“Honestly, Hubie!” she said as she batted away Prime Minister Aegir trying to pour a concoction down her throat. “Next time you don’t want to be interrupted during a date, put a sock on the doorknob or something! No, Ferdinand, the burns are slight - I’m not drinking that, you know overdoing them always makes me nauseated.”

“The burns are only slight?” Minister Vestra frowned. “Hm. They were supposed to have melted your bones. I wonder if I misapplied the -”

“I will get you some vulneraries, Dorothea!” interrupted Prime Minister Aegir hastily as Ms. Arnault scowled darkly at Minister Vestra.

“Oh, go with him, Hubert,” Ms. Arnault said. “I can tell when I’ve interrupted a Very Fraught Conversation by now and you two should finish it so you can pay attention to the performance.”

Minister Vestra gave her a grateful look and laced his fingers through Prime Minister Aegir’s tightly, hustling him out the door. Ms. Arnault looked balefully at the burnt section of her skirt, then crossed her arms and started tapping her foot. “Alright, you can come out now,” she said. 

Delarivier put a quelling hand on Driss’s arm as he automatically moved to obey. Maybe if they stayed quiet, she would go away. Dorothea Arnault combined an astounding capacity for emotional intelligence with the killer instincts of a shark. There was no other associate of Minister Vestra’s that filled Delarivier with as much fearful respect as she. 

(It was mostly fear.)

“It will go even more poorly if I have to come and get you myself.”

Delarivier popped out, dragging Driss with her.

There was the distinctive sound of Thoron fizzling away into nothing as Ms. Arnault dropped her hand. “Why, Del, Driss, what are the two of you doing here?” Her eyes widened in delight. “Wait, Hubert and Ferdinand didn’t interrupt _you_ , did they?”

“No!” said Delarivier and Driss in unison, as Delarivier dropped Driss’s arm like she’d been the one set on fire.

“Huh, too bad. That would be a pretty cute little operetta! The loyal aides brought together by their bosses’ romance, misunderstandings ensue, that kind of thing.”

Driss and Delarivier avoided looking at each other.

Ms. Arnault’s wide green eyes sharpened. “I’m still not hearing a really good explanation for why you two were hiding under the table,” she said, resting a hand against her soft pink cheek. 

“Minister Vestra requested that I review the listening spells again. Make sure they were positioned correctly,” Delarivier tried. “And Lord Barshah was. He was.”

“I was assisting Ms. Lavie, obviously,” Driss said staunchly. “Ensuring the sigils placed did not violate international agreements.”

“Right, per the ah, codicil to the peace talks, subsection triple a point four,” said Delarivier.

“‘A government institution may collect personal information that is intended to be used for an administrative purpose directly from the individual to which it relates’,” said Driss, “for any purpose where, in the pinion of the head of the institution, the public interest clearly outweighs any invasion of privacy that could result from its collection.’”

“‘As long as that method of collection does not violate section five, subpara (b),” said Delarivier.

“Which would be?” said Ms. Arnault, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh, section five, subpara (b),” said Driss, “which states that a government institution is in compliance with the requirements laid out in the codicil whereby the placement of any apparatus for the purpose for information collection is placed in such a manner as minimize the invasion of privacy of individuals to whom the administrative purpose does not. Uh. Relate.”

“Yes, I believe it was recently upheld by a decision in the Faerghian ecclesiastical court,” said Delarivier. “We were trying to prevent an international incident.”

Ms. Arnault smiled. “That’s quite a lot of jargon. Far too much for me to comprehend.” 

Driss, the idiot, started to look relieved.

“I’ll have to run it by Hubie,” she finished sweetly. 

“Flames, okay!” Delarivier said. “No, don’t look at me like that, Driss. The jig is up! All I ask of Ms. Arnault is to see that my parents get my savings, whatever my landlady has left of them anyway.”

“That’s a bit overdramatic,” said Ms. Arnault. “Unless you’re assassins, in which case, that is definitely not dramatic enough.”

“We’re not assassins!” said Driss. “We’ve been trying to help them! How were we to know they were flaming engaged this whole time?”

Ms. Arnault blinked once and said, not unkindly, “Why don’t you two start from the beginning.”

***

The more they told her, the sillier Delarivier felt. Their grand plan sounded more and more like the fuzz of long-term sleep deprivation and anxiety. Which, of course, it was.

Ms. Arnault only said, “Well, manipulation is a type of power, isn’t it? And sometimes, it’s the only type of power you feel is possible to grasp. I _am_ surprised they managed to keep their relationship a secret from the two of you though. Well, Ferdinand, mostly.”

“It just made sense that he had a lot of meetings with Minister Vestra in the beginning!” said Driss. “Early in the morning. Late at night. Midday.”

“I only recently moved over to day staff,” protested Delariver, feeling that her professional acumen was in some distant way being questioned. “Right around the time Minister Vestra was injured in that, uh.” 

She glanced at Driss, but he was staring numbly into space, still unwillingly putting pieces together about how many times his employer had been having sex in the office, so she continued, “that final operation. I thought drowning himself in work was just the way he always operated.”

“Oh, it definitely is,” said Ms. Arnault. “Both he and Ferdie. Avoidant something trauma blah blah coping mechanisms.”

“It was easier during the war. You expect life and death things to take over everything. But after it, I thought,” Delarivier stopped. It felt impossible to put into words. She had joined the army because at least it was one less mouth for them to feed. She had gone willingly to war for the Emperor’s vision of a world where privilege didn’t follow blood. But power was a diffuse, slippery thing; it still lived in the right vowels, and what you could say no to, and in who had the opportunity to remake the world and who still had to live in it after.

“I thought I would have time,” Delarivier tried. “To rest. And plan. And have some say in what comes.”

Ms. Arnault’s eyes flickered over her face and she sighed. “Yeah. I was the only commoner at the Officer’s Academy. I went there to find a husband. Ideally someone who would love me for who I was, but you know. Rich. Powerful. Until the war, I thought security was something someone had to give me.”

“You’re going to be the consort to the Queen of Brigid,” Driss said.

“Okay, well, yes, but that happened afterwards!” snapped Ms. Arnault. She crossed her arms again and looked at the two of them. Then shook her head.

“I’m not going to tell you I resuscitated the Mittelfrank all by myself because I clearly made powerful friends. But after I retire, I didn’t want anyone who works there to ever have their livelihoods dependent on catching some horrid noble’s eye. Now listen, Ferdie and Hubie should be just about done making up now, so we don’t have a lot of time but you two should drop by the opera house sometime. I bet you’d like to hear about our Theatrical Protective Union.”

***

Getting the other palace staff interested turned out to be much simpler than expected, which is not to say that organizing them was easy.

“I still don’t understand why we have to pay you to be a part of this,” sniffed Berenger Halstrom, current head of Minister Vestra’s night staff and frequently Delarivier’s least favorite person in the world. “And why are you automatically in charge of the purse, Pipple?”

“Her name is Delarivier Lavie and you are paying _neither_ of us, Sir Berenger,” said Driss patiently. “You are paying the Palace Protective Union for organizing costs, protection for our members and a fund towards living costs in case we need to strike.”

“Right, and if you want to be the one holding the purse, you can bloody well do so, Halstrom,” said Delarivier, not patiently at all. “And that means you’re also the bloody one taking this petition to Minister Vestra. So make my day!”

No one else really had any objections after that.

***

“Hubert, if you keep scowling like that I will have to turn you out of bed entirely. You are going to give me nightmares.” Ferdinand brushed his hair out, one eye on his lover, as delightfully incongruous as a meat cleaver amidst Ferdinand’s wealth of soft, silken pillows. He never tired of the sight and wondered only that he had deprived himself for several months, falling asleep at his desk while the guilt churned in his belly.

“Am I supposed to be jumping with joy as I read this?” Hubert turned another page of dense, meticulous writing that Ferdinand recognized as Delarivier Lavie’s work. Flashes of colour ran through the headings for easy reading, clearly Driss Barshah’s touch. 

“I thought our promise to balance our work and life went both ways. Anyway, as Edelgard noted, it’s hardly insurrection.” Though Ferdinand himself had felt shame at his first reading of the list of carefully worded demands. Duke Aegir had treated his servants as little more than whipping posts who also happened to bring him tea. Ferdinand thought to do better, but the only thing he’d done was be nicer. He had given no thought at all to the hours the castle staff worked, the lack of protections available if any of them fell sick or simply grew old. He had simply never considered it. “Most of their requests are reasonable.”

“Thinly veiled demands,” Hubert said. “If we do not respond in a manner they deem sufficient, they will abandon their duties wholesale.”

“It is not exactly an armed revolution, Hubert. I believe the term is ‘strike’. Did you know it was originally of Brigid origin? Dorothea was telling me about it. Apparently in 1155, their sailors sought better working conditions by -”

“Do not speak to me of Dorothea. I wish she’d kept her organizing to the damn Mittelfrank. That is _theatre_ , this is government. She could have kept out of the running of the palace at least.”

“Hubert! Dorothea fought Edelgard’s war, the same as any of us. She has a right to say how Adrestia is being reformed. I wish she had taken a position with us after. I hate to admit it but she has a perspective that we sorely lack. We have been nobles all our lives.” Ferdinand tied his hair off with another ribbon, a blue and silver one that had been in Hubert’s little gift box. It made him warm to look at it. 

“It is an enormous disadvantage,” he added, to make Hubert look up at him and smile. It was a successful attempt. Hubert’s eyes travelled over him in the way Ferdinand loved, slow and assessing. His gaze caught on the ribbon, and softened.

“Perhaps if all nobles were like you,” Hubert said. He didn’t finish the thought, but looked down at the documents thoughtfully. “But they are not. Even if they were, the next generation might not be, and so onwards. I suppose it is hard to have to depend on the basic goodness of people in power over you.” 

“You and Edelgard know it too well.” Ferdinand moved towards the bed and Hubert shifted to let Ferdinand in under the covers, then turned towards him with a seeking noise. Ferdinand met him eagerly.

His braid ended up quite dishevelled towards the end.

“I know this concerns palace staff and is out of my purview, Minister,” Ferdinand said teasingly quite some time after. He had draped himself over Hubert’s lean chest, pillowing his head on his shoulder. Hubert would eventually complain about his arm falling asleep, but for now he had Ferdinand tucked under his chin, fingers playing idly with long, red waves. “But imagine planning our wedding during a strike. To say nothing of having to cook and serve our own food, do our own linens and my wrangling dignitaries without Driss’s help. We could elope, I suppose.”

“Hmph.” Hubert looked down at Ferdinand’s hand resting on his chest, gold band glinting. “You deserve every piece of pomp and circumstance and I will mow down anyone who gets in the way of that. But Lavie does have a hand with state matters. She’s managed to ruin that potentially troublesome alliance between Baron Ochs and Lady Galloway of Rusalka with her seating plans alone, to say nothing of several politically unwise love affairs.”

“It would be a pity to lose them and the rest of our excellent staff. Wasn’t Ms. Lavie the one who came along and got us out of your poison cabinet as well? Very attentive. And did she not fight in your battalions during the war?”

“You’re overdoing it, Ferdinand.” Hubert kissed the top of his head. “I have nothing against any of the organizers. I only wish we had more generals with the bloodthirsty efficiency of Ms. Janely. Lord Barshah displays a commendable concern for you and the efficacy of your programs.”

“And I must say that I was similarly impressed with your Ms. Lavie! It was clear when we spoke how sincere her interest in your wellbeing was and -”

Hubert blinked. “When did you speak with my aide?”

“Ah,” said Ferdinand, remembering his promise. “Well! I am starting to get sleepy. Put those papers away, Hubert. This will be discussed in the morning. In a way, it is reassuring, is it not? We might seek to protect the people of Adrestia but the people can always seek to protect themselves.”

Hubert still looked suspicious but clearly did not want to get into a philosophical debate about the political implications of grassroots organizing. He subsided willingly as Ferdinand reached up to press his lips against his. Ferdinand leaned over and pinched the candles out, settling back into Hubert with a satisfied sigh.

“When did you speak to my aide though?”

“Good _night_ , Hubert.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for joining me on this ride - tickets, as always, are non-refundable.
> 
> Your comments and kudos are so appreciated. 
> 
> In the meantime, folks, from each according to their own ability, to each according to their needs and all.
> 
> For more rom-com pastiches, check out my other stuff! It also involves Ferdinand and Hubert being unable to speak to each other without inappropriate intervention (ft. Claude & Hilda)


End file.
